


Sasquatch Yearnings

by bluecarrot



Category: Hamilton - Fandom, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cryptids, M/M, Plaid shirts, Sasquatch, Small Towns, alex is a writer, burr is a lumberjack, if that much, just like in real life, really this bears only the slightest resemblence to anything, scary noises, things that go bump in the night - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2017-01-13
Packaged: 2018-09-14 06:01:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9165277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluecarrot/pseuds/bluecarrot
Summary: Alex Hamilton, a down-on-his-luck wannabe author, leaves the idylls of NYC to journey upstate ... where he will definitely focus on his book (working title: "Searching for Sasquatch").He will definitely not get distracted by manly muscles rippling under a plaid shirt. What an idea.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> written 01/02/2017.
> 
> this is a ridiculous thing, and i have no one to blame but holograms.
> 
> (and it's set in the early 90's, when Mulder & Scully roamed the tv channels and internet was not a Thing. fyi.)

He moved to the woods to live simply, with intention. That was the plan. He'd tossed around the idea of getting one of those tiny houses and hitching it to a trailer, seeing all the parts of the world that he could see without crossing any oceans, hunting down cryptids all over the US -- but in the end, they were too expensive for what he'd get.

And there in the paper was the sale of a little (very little) house upstate, just waiting for him. He could stay there and watch the snow fall and research his book and write it, too. It would be great. It would be perfect. He wouldn't have any distractions; nobody to bother him at all.

The first night he realized how misguided he had been. There were plenty of distractions here. The absence of the city, which had always felt like being alive inside a beating heart, was horrible all by itself. Where were the lights? The noises? The tourists?

He was the tourist now.

He fell into a scattered hazy rest around four and stayed there until the sun was well up in the sky -- which meant it was quite late morning when he drove into what they called a town.

The general store was like a Wal-Mart, if Wal-Mart were designed for and by hermits.

Conversation stopped when he came inside. There were four people in the store, and they turned as one to stare at him.

"Good morning," he said, pleasantly enough.

Nobody replied.

He twitched.

"Um. I moved in yesterday -- I bought the house from Francis Turner, it's a few miles up the road. I'm here from the city," he added, feeling how unnecessary that remark was as soon as he spoke it: they could certainly tell. "Do you have -- um. Is there any sort of delivery service? My car won't do well on these roads after it snows."

Seven eyes looked at him.

He looked back, starting with the woman wearing the eyepatch over what was clearly an empty socket. She wore a heavy hunting jacket, several sizes too large for her frame, and leaned forward on the counter.

Another woman, shorter and pretty and freckled, dressed in a logo t-shirt, a cardigan, and unfashionable jeans.

A pair of men whose faces and expression spoke a similar patronage; they might even have been twins. Their beards were dense and closely-trimmed, although one had bits of what looked like food in it.

He hadn't known exactly what to wear when he was buying clothes for this move, but he didn't think he would stick out too far in jeans and a dark sweater. Now he felt as conspicuous as if he'd bought everything from a single page of an Outdoor Living catalog. He cleared his throat. "M' name's Hamilton."

Silence.

"I'm here to write a book."

Someone's boot creaked as they shifted their weight. Nobody replied.

"Well," said Hamilton. "I'll ... I'll just ..."

"We have delivery," said the eyepatch-woman, having apparently come to this conclusion on her own. One of the twins -- the one with a clean beard -- was giving her a straight expression that meant he had some sort of argument with her.

Alexander caught the slight lift of her chin and admired her for it. "Delivery?" he said. "To where I live? You know it?" -- and winced: god, could he sound any more like the Newcomer in a horror film?

"Turner place, sure. Leave a list. We'll do what we can."

"Thanks."

"Costs," she said. Her words were dwindling and her chin was falling down. "Five percent."

"Not a problem. How long will it take?"

"I'll send him 'round."

Hamilton waited a moment, but that was all the answer he seemed likely to get, so he left his scribbled list on the counter and managed to get out of the store without, he thought, making a further ass of himself.

Once outside, he stuffed his hands into his pockets and looked up. The sky was gathering white, and already a few flakes drifted down.

 

The world, when he woke up the next morning, was dusted in white: it was just the lightest touch of snow and already melting. And there was someone pounding at the door.

Hamilton moaned into his pillow. He didn't want to get up, he didn't want to put on clothes, he didn't want to be here at all. He wanted the smell of old piss on the street and "world's best coffee" signs in store windows that certainly did not sell the best coffee, and --

His pants were cold as hell. He yelped, pulling them on over his bare skin. Maybe it was time to stop sleeping in the nude.

When he opened the door and saw the man outside, balancing a box of groceries on one hip, he thought it was definitely time to add a few layers -- to hold in his d--k, if nothing else.

He managed to refrain from saying _I didn't know they grew them like you in the the country,_ and opened the door. "In here, please. In the kitchen. It's -- sure." Because the man was going forward like he knew where things were. Alright, that was fine, he probably did know. He'd probably been here before. Maybe he'd played here as a kid.

He glanced at Hamilton, who was still blinking stupidly, not quite certain how to deal with this Greek god who had appeared on his doorstep bearing groceries. Where was his wallet, again? Should he tip?

The guy made a tiny motion like a shrug and started to unpack, carefully setting things on the counter. He was wearing a bulky jacket, patched together with clumsy stitches and actual duct tape, but even that couldn't hide the broad set of his shoulders or the smooth muscle hiding underneath the seat of his jeans. Where the fuck had he been yesterday? And did he have any brothers? (Or sisters? Hamilton wasn't feeling especially picky.)

As was his usual wont under stress, he started to babble. "I'm Alex -- Alexander Hamilton. I moved here just a couple days ago and, and I know it's only a couple hours away from NYC, and I lived there my whole life, well my whole life until this point, but I swear this is like a different country. A different world. I guess it is almost a different country, right? They said Canada is right over the line there. North. Just a few miles. The woods are sort of creepy. I guess that's a real city-boy thing to say, isn't it? Never thought I'd miss the subways. But there you go. It's culture shock. I came here to do some research. I'm writing a book. I'm a writer. Not that you've heard of me, not yet, but just you wait. I'm gonna be bigger than Stephen King."

The guy, who'd moved with uncommon slowness, took out the last thing -- a jar of oil -- and picked up the box. He faced Hamilton, crossing his impressive arms over those impressive pectorals, but he still didn't speak.

"Do you work for the store? Because -- because I might need more stuff. Probably. Eventually, for sure. But maybe soon. I don't know quite what I need yet. I've only been here a day." It was hard to think of what he was saying. "Um. Do you -- do you -- cut wood, too? Because I might need some help with my wood." He stopped talking; he couldn't think of a single thing more to say that wasn't about how beautifully dark the man's eyes were, or how much he was interested in the softness of his mouth, and were his hands calloused, because, well, Alex really liked the rough texture of callouses on his ----, and it was still acting up; he could feel it shifting about, under its own volition as always.

"I cut wood," said the other, at last. His voice was mild and smooth and.

Fuck.

"What's your name?"

"Aaron Burr."

"You don't talk much, Aaron Burr."

"You didn't give me a moment to speak."

Was he annoyed? Amused? Impossible to tell. His mouth was a straight line, softly closed; he hadn't moved a muscle except to unpack, and shift his position, and to speak.

Hamilton felt duly chastened. "I'll call down to the store if I need something."

"They know where to find me," said Burr. He waited a moment, then said: "You good here?"

"I'm good."

So Burr nodded, and left the way he'd come -- dropping bits of dirt and mud and leaves on the floor.

Hamilton locked the door behind him (pure habit -- it seemed unlikely that anyone would bother to break in here in the middle of nowhere) and watched Burr step up into his truck. How could a form that bulky move with such grace? And how could he concentrate on a cryptid when there was an even more interesting -- and very real -- mythical being just down the road?


	2. Chapter 2

The noise of a rattling truck idling nearby jolted Hamilton awake -- not in volume (he could sleep through anything) but familiarity. He knew that sound. He pulled on proper clothes, dirty socks, and just managed to shove his feet into shoes before the knock came.

Alex willed himself not to smile and mostly succeeded. Burr was in another heavy flannel shirt, greens and blues this time; it was gorgeous. He was gorgeous. Alex edited all his throbbing interest down to a single "Good morning."

"Hello," said Burr. He was holding -- what? A hatchet. An ax. What was the difference? "They thought you might need help, down at the store."

"Help?" What sort of man offered to _help_ while holding on to an ax ( _was_ it an ax?) (Was Burr literally a lumberjack?)

"It's starting to freeze of a night."

Alex shook his head, not getting it.

"You've a woodstove, Hamilton. No wood means no heat means no water in proper liquid form." A pause. "Besides. Your little toes might get cold."

Unable to tell if that was a teasing comment or a nasty one -- feeling acutely ignorant -- increasingly aware that he _wasn't_ having a problem getting wood -- Alex said: "You're here to cut my lumber, huh."

"Unless you plan to do it yourself."

"I do not."

"I'll get to it, then."

 

  
It was beautiful to watch Burr work: he was form fitted to function, no movements wasted. Not that he was especially quick about things -- he took a moment (hands in back pockets) to survey the clearing; then he moved half the neatly-stacked wood from under its ugly tarp cover (was that a _cord_ of wood? Maybe? Oh he did miss having a dictionary nearby); then Burr slowly stretched out his arms and shoulders; then he bent over to pick up the first piece.

Alex (who was indeed feeling the first ache of cold in his toes) choked on his coffee.

Burr had an exceptionally nice ass.

He shouldn't be watching this. He shouldn't notice this. He was here to work. Anyway, he was actually working _right this moment_ , he'd just gotten _distracted_ \-- that was all.

Alex sat at his typewriter and stared at the blank page.

 

Burr came inside. He was sweating in a sort of _glowy_ way and accepted the smile Alex gave him without returning it. He rubbed his palms on his thighs and said "You're a writer, eh?"

Alex bristled.

Probably Burr meant "do you get paid or is it just jacking off onto paper" -- but Alex (who was indeed not published, yet) considered himself a writer regardless of his bank account -- and anyway Burr hadn't been specific. That was quickly becoming one of the defining Burr traits, right up there after 'elegant eyebrows that he probably doesn't even groom', and 'jeans that would look better in a heap on the floor'.

"Um. Yeah. I'm here to write a book. I couldn't ... couldn't focus, in the city. I don't know why. Sometimes inspiration hides behind a tin can on the street and other times you try to track it down and get, just, nothing."

Burr nodded like he knew. Or maybe he only wanted Alex to keep talking.

Obliging Alex continued to talk. "I thought I'd write about cryptids --"

"About what?"

"Cryptids. Imaginary creatures. Sometimes they're not so imaginary. The Loch Ness monster, you know, and the Jersey Devil, the Bunyip, and Bigfoot, he's supposed to live in the woods around here --"

Burr straightened a bit, but his expression was neutral and his voice absolutely noncommitally polite when he said: "You came here to write a book about Bigfoot."

Alex scowled at him. "Why is that so hard to believe?"

"Oh, it's not at all difficult to believe. Have you set up the stove yet?"

"No. Well, I tried, but smoke got everywhere."

Burr went over to it, sat down cross-legged on the floor, and struck a match. "Here's the damper; see? Lean your head in a bit. You open that, so the fire can breathe, and use a match to show it where to go. Then --"

 

  
"Come on, Hamilton. We'll bring in some firewood and kindling. I'll show you how to stack -- wait. Are those your only clothes?"

"What's wrong with my clothes?"

Burr shook his head. "Nothing. Nothing."

But Alex could swear he heard a "city boy" muttered under his breath.

 

 

Burr was above to leave, but -- "Wait." He took a notepad and pen from his pocket -- god only knew why he carried them -- and wrote down something in neat, almost squared-off penmanship. He folded it over once and offered it to Alex. His expression said that he couldn't believe he was doing this, but his hand was steady. "My number. For emergencies, Hamilton."

"Of course," said Alex. "Thanks. Um. Do you need mine?"

"No," said Burr. "I'll be back in a few days." And he left.

Alex did manage to wait until the truck was out of sight before he jumped up and down like a little kid. Then he ran his wrists under cold water and pressed his hands to the back of his neck -- he needed to calm down. Or -- he could use this energy, couldn't he? He pulled out the chair and plopped down in front of the typewriter, wrote out seven pages, single-spaced, then fell asleep watching the trees shiver off their little weight of snow.

 

 

"Burr? Aaron Burr?"

"Is this Hamilton?" A fumbling noise. "What time is it?"

"Four in the morning, but I heard something outside."

A sigh. "What was it?"

Hamilton replicated the noise. "Like that, except screechier."

"Probably an owl."

"No, it wasn't hooting at all. It was kind of," and he tried again, drawing out the shrill tone a bit differently.

He swore that he could hear Burr counting to ten. "If it happens again, try to record it, okay?"

"It woke me up," said Alexander.

"Do you want me to come over right this moment?"

Would you please? "No. I'm okay."

"Good. I'll," Burr sighed audibly this time, "I'll see you in a few hours. When the sun is up. And Hamilton?"

"Yeah?"

"This number is for emergencies."

 

 

Burr repeated himself when he showed up, perfectly on-time, with a long plaid thermos of coffee. He shook his head when Alexander offered some fresh.

"It's a good medium roast blend," said Alex, nonplussed.

Was that a smile or a smirk at the edge of Burr's mouth? Damn these reticent upstaters! But didn't he look beautiful? The little house was cold as hell (Alex was still having trouble with the wood stove) and their breath was visible indoors, but the sun came through the frost-flowers on the window over the sink and the light, diffused, lit up all Burr's edges and softened them. Alex squinted at him, to hide the way his irrational heart thumped and expanded at the sight of this man. "Did you really match your thermos to your shirt?"

Burr looked down. "They're not the same."

"Oh," said Alex. "So you have a _wide variety_ of plaid flannels in your life."

Burr set down his mug. "Alexander. I didn't appreciate you calling before dawn because a bird frightened you. It's not an emergency."

"How do you know it was an owl? It might have been anything. It might have been a panther. Or a bear." _Or Sasquatch_ , he did not say.

"Speaking of bears, did you ever set up your trash? I didn't see the can outside."

"It's on the porch."

Burr shut his eyes. "What did I say about that?"

"Don't leave it close to the house," recited Hamilton. "But Burr --"

"You're being reckless."

"I'm not  _reckless_! I'm very sensible and good and well-behaved."

"You called me at four in the morning because _you heard a noise_ ," said Burr: he was not yelling, he hadn't even raised his voice, but his words were perfectly clipped.

Alex flinched. He spread out his fingers and pressed them against the cold edge of the counter. Ground. Ground. "I _called_ you. I didn't go out and investigate. I did exactly what you told me to do."

He couldn't look Burr in the face. _I did exactly what you told me._ His shoulders were tight, he felt it, and he was still cringing and he couldn't help that either. The silence dragged and dragged. Finally he had to look up.

Burr was smiling at him. Was that the first time he'd smiled at Alex? (Maybe the first time he'd smiled, ever?) It slightly touched his eyes. "You're right. I did tell you to do that. And, yes, I'd rather you call me than go out on your own. All things considered."

 _All things considered_ , thought Alex.

They considered each other. Burr finished his coffee and rinsed out the mug, setting it upside-down in the sink to drain. "So. What shall we do first? Split wood, or set up your stove again?"

"Stove, please. But you know, I thought I had it right, I even opened the damper--"

 

 

"You're set with wood for the day. Or longer."

"Yep. Certainly."

"And you won't call me at four in the morning again."

"No." (If Alex stayed here much longer, he'd turn as taciturn and ornery as Burr. Heart-rending thought. But if he stayed here, he'd be near to Burr. Excellent life-bringing thought.) (He really needed to get over this crush.)

Burr was going on. "-- unless it's an emergency."

"That _was_ an emergency! Aaron Burr, that was a _really scary noise._ You didn't hear it."

A muscle twitched at the corner of Burr's mouth but did not quite turn into a smile. "I suppose if I lived in the big city, I might be jumping at new sounds, too."

"I suppose that you might," said ornery taciturn Alex. "Thanks for helping me. Really. I appreciate it."

Burr nodded. He was being reticent, even for Burr. Whatever. Alex could wait him out.

They stared at each other.

Burr broke it. "Look. You need to be careful."

Alex bit down a grin of self-satisfaction -- a feeling that was becoming more and more familiar the longer he knew Burr, and the more frustrating his lack of knowledge became. Well, he'd take the feeling, even if he had to hand it to himself. "Hmm. Do I? About spiders and owls?"

"It's common sense you lack," said Burr: it was like a slap to the face. More gently, he added: "Things are different here."

How tiresome it was to hear about nothing but differences -- especially with the decided lack of proof. People were people, far as Alex could see, and after a moment he said so. He tried to make it sound like a jaded country truism, like he was as unsurprised by surprises as the most grizzled prospector, but he had been born and bred in New York and it _would_ come out of him in a pointed conclusion: "How do you know from 'different', Burr? You've never been anywhere else."

"True," said Burr, in his polite tones again. "Forget I said anything."

"Aaron ..."

Burr pointed at the wallphone. " _Emergencies_."

And he left.

 

 

Alex let Burr's truck get all the way out of the drive before he called again. It was still visible, though; he watched it stop and park.

"Alex Hamilton, if this is another scary noise --"

"There's a spider," he said; his heart was in his throat again. "Come back and kill it for me?"

Burr hung up, but not before Alex heard very clearly the sound of laughter.

 

 

 _The origins of the Sasquatch myth_  (Alex wrote) _are probably because the woods are incredibly scary and also dark at night_

 

No.

He tried again.

 

_The Sasquatch myth originates in the fact that most settlers did not have a plaid-wearing lumberjack type to comfort them_

 

Alex frowned; _his_ plaid-wearing lumberjack was distinctly missing; Burr hadn't stopped by in two days. Granted, Alex hadn't called to order any (unnecessary) groceries, or (sadly necessary) wood-cutting services, and the forest had been relatively quiet for a while, and when a great hairy spider sprang across the floor directly at his face, he responded with reflexes finely tuned by years of rat-hunting: he stomped on it.

"See?" he said to the phone. "I don't need you at all."

But certain broad muscular arms, and what appeared to be muscular legs, and the appearance of a slight belly that pressed against the waistband of well-worn jeans, and purient curiosity about what other wonders might hide beneath those grubby stained clothes, kept him up at night -- when it wasn't helping him sleep.

 

 

On the third day the phone rang.

Alex hadn't slept well and he was only halfway through the first cup of coffee. He stared at the phone like it had grown tentacles and scuttled up the wall, and barely answered before it stopped ringing. "Hello?"

"Hello."

His heart stopped and started again, violently. He pressed a hand to keep it in place. "Mr Burr. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Checking up on my little city boy," said the disembodied. "It's been a few days. Hasn't anything crept out of the woodpile to startle you, yet?"

Alex had to clear his throat to get past the effect that _"my"_ had on him. "There was a really big spider the other day --"

" _Another_ one? Oh, dear."

"But I killed it myself. _And_ I cleaned up afterwards, too." He cleared his throat again, feeling that familiar tension deep in his gut. "Some bears knocked over my garbage can last night. Didn't get in it, though. And, um," (what else? What could he possibly say?) "-- um, I even banked the fire properly, and started it again when I got up. And I laid it out really nice. So. I don't need you at all."

Silence. Then: "I see that."

Well, shit. Alexander could have bitten out his own tongue. "But. Um. There is one thing I could use help with."

"What's that?"

"Uh. Company? Maybe? There's a bottle of wine here, and nobody to share it." (Could he have sounded any more like a _Lifetime_ movie?) "I just mean, it's kind of boring talking to myself all day--"

"I know exactly what you meant," said Burr, in very dry tones indeed.

Alex pressed his hand against the table. What he wouldn't give to see that face. Did Burr understand?

"I've things to do today," Burr said, after a long pause. "So."

"You don't have to come. I wasn't meaning anything. I didn't want to make you feel ..."

Burr said: "I'll be done late. But I could stop by. I could bring supper."

Alex could barely breathe. "That'd be okay."

"I thought it might be," said Burr. "See you then."

**Author's Note:**

> @littledeconstruction on the self-indulgence that is tumblr


End file.
